


Helpless

by YrsForever



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alexander Hamilton is George Washington's Adopted Son, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Cinnamon Roll Eliza Schuyler, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, George Washington is a Dad, Historical Figures, Historical Lams, Love, M/M, Protective Marquis de Lafayette, Protective Older Brothers, Protective Siblings, Sibling Love, Teenagers, historical appearances
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29978466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YrsForever/pseuds/YrsForever
Summary: Seventeen-year-old Alexander Hamilton should feel lucky. He should feel lucky that he had survived the illness he and his mother had when he was just twleve-years-old. He should feel lucky that he survived a hurricane. But he doesn't. His traumatic childhood still haunts him day and night and Hamilton swore to himself to never befriend anyone or become close to them, for he fears he might lose them. But when Hamilton arrives at King's High, all of that changes. He meets the handsome, blonde John Laurens and instantly befriends him. But after his recent breakup with his girlfriend, Martha Manning, Laurens learns that his father will becoming to visit him and explained to Laurens he better be ready to welcome him with Martha. So, panicked, Laurens asks Hamilton to be his fake girlfriend for two weeks because he looked "feminine" enough. Hamilton agrees nonetheless. But little did they know, will the two actually be helpless for each other.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & Angelica Schuyler, Alexander Hamilton & Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Alexander Hamilton & George Washington, Alexander Hamilton & Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, Alexander Hamilton & Margaret "Peggy" Schuyler, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, George Washington/Martha Washington, Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette/Hercules Mulligan, John Laurens/Martha Manning
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter One

I WAKE WITH a strained gasp. My eyes snap open as I shoot upright, my shoulders tensed and up to my ears, my back rigid straight, and my hands clutching onto the bedsheets that are now draped over my lap. My knees are slightly bent as I sit upright, staring wildly at the mirror across the room in front of my bed. My eyes flicker wildly left to right, trying to get a sense of my surroundings as I pant fast, my breaths sharp and ragged as if I had just completed a marathon. I feel beads of sweat trickle down the side of my face, or is that the rain, or tears perhaps? I can’t tell at this point, nor do I care. 

Am I back in Nevis? No. No, I’m not. I’m not in Nevis. I’m not in the bed next to my mother as she held me in her arms tightly before she… well, anyways. I’m not back in Nevis, escaping the hurricane with my brother, James, who… No. No, I’m not back there. I’m in my bedroom, by the looks of it, at the Washington’s residence. I’m in my rather small bed, my trembling hands clutching at the bedsheets tightly, so tight my knuckles turn white. I’m in my bed, in my bedroom. I’m home. This is my home. Not Nevis. 

I look to my right. Over there is my wooden desk by my window, my laptop surprisingly still open but the screen is black and loose-leaf papers are scattered over my desk along with random pens. An empty metal tray sits on the edge of my desk with an empty white mug and a plate with crumbs on it. My chair is scooted back slightly away from the desk. My blinds above my desk are closed over the window, so it blocks out the early morning sunrays a little that shines through them. A few feet away from my desk, is my closet where I store all my miscellaneous things and my clothes and shoes and then to the left of that is my vanity where I get myself ready for the day and then right next to that is my dresser where I store my pajamas and stay-at home clothes. My laundry basket sits between the wall and the dresser next to the closed bedroom door. I’m home. There’s no flood surrounding me. No dead bodies facing face down in the murky green-blue water. There’s no debris from torn houses from the harsh winds of the hurricane. There’s no thunder crackling, no lightning flashing. I don’t see him. I don’t see my older brother, James, who had died while trying to protect me from the raging storm back in Nevis. He shoved me out of the way when we were trying to catch our breath, standing underneath a tree that snapped off its trunk that was rooted to the ground. And what did I do? I just stood there with a stunned and frightened expression on my face as I watched the tree fall, fall, fall. It collapses onto James, the branch hitting his upper back and he topples forward in an instant, landing face down in the water like the other dead bodies. His limbs twisted at an awkward angle. The water turning from a green-blue color to a dark purple and I realize then, that it was blood. His blood. 

My sharp, ragged panting comes short when I hear the obnoxious beeping coming from the left side of me. I whip my head over my shoulder, eyes widening and face paling. I’m still shaking as I lift my hand up from the bedsheets and slam the alarm off, wincing a bit as my hand makes contact with the buttons on top of it. Now, there’s nothing but quiet in my room. It’s just me. It’s just me on this small bed, in this dark and empty space. 

I feel myself sinking a little into the mountain of pillows surrounding me. I close my eyes gently as I feel the tears start to slip down my freckled cheeks. I draw my legs up to my chest, wrapping my thin arms around them tightly and resting my forehead behind my knees, letting a lock of red-brownish hair fall in front of my knees as the rest of my long, curly, wavy red-brownish hair falls around me. 

I swallow hard, licking my dry lips and letting out a shaky breath but it only turned out to be a choked sob. I clamp a hand over my mouth to try to stifle the sob but unfortunately that doesn’t work. I squeeze my eyes harder as memories of my childhood floods through my brain. I’m not the type of person who likes to discuss about their past. I like to keep my past tucked away in my brain behind a closed door and so far, I haven’t had to reopen closing wounds but basically my childhood life was a living hell. My father abandoned my mother, brother, and I when I was just ten-years-old. For what purposes, I do not know. I just remember my parents arguing one night and then boom. My father vanished. I never saw him again. Anyways, not even two years later, when I was about twelve, my mother fell extremely ill. Soon, I caught the illness. I survived the sickness but my mother didn’t. She died as she was holding me in her arms. Then, we moved in with our cousin who not long after James and I moved in with him, he committed suicide. We found him laying in a pool of blood on his bed in his room, the only conclusion that came to mind was that he either stabbed or shot himself to death. Then, after that a hurricane came. It destroyed my home. It tore and ate everything up. It tore homes apart, drowned people, killed children, it killed my brother. Ever since the hurricane, I’ve always been afraid of storms. It will always cause me to fall back in time and reexperience the hurricane all over again. 

Now, here I am. I wrote my way out of hell, strangers, kind strangers heard my stories that were published in the newspaper and offered to help me get the next ship available to New York. So, I sailed across the Atlantic with other immigrants to Manhattan, New York City. There, I met Mrs. Washington at a marketplace one day. She’s a kind woman, a soft-hearted and sweet woman who loves me like her own son. I told her my story when she asked me what I was doing out alone in the dangerous yet beautiful city. She looked aghast, shocked and she grabbed my arm and dragged me all the way to their apartment where I met my adoptive father, George Washington, and my adoptive older brother Gilbert Marquis de Lafayette for the very first time. Martha, George’s wife and my adoptive mother, explained to George my story and insisted on taking me in and raising me as a child of their own. George agreed nonetheless and here I am. Three years I have been living with the Washington’s and I must confess, it has been life-changing for me and I never felt so loved in my entire life. I wouldn’t trade them for the world. 

My choked sobs turn into a small sniffle as I lift my head up from my knees and wipe my tear-stained freckled cheeks with the heel of my palm. I swallow thickly, looking out the window as I wrap my arms around my legs again, resting my chin behind my kneecaps and admiring the beautiful sunrise. The dark, navy-blue sky suddenly changed colors. It went from a midnight blue to a light blue sky with a haze of pale yellow and soft pink and lavender purple mixed together. I think I see a haze of gray in the middle somewhere as the sun slowly rises up from behind the metal skyscrapers across the street from my apartment. The sunrays shine in between the skyscrapers, in a straight line and directly into my eyes. I have to use my hand as a visor to block it and I recoil slightly, grimacing. 

I sigh through my nose as my pounding heart slowly calms down into a soft, slow rhythm. I turn over my shoulder toward my left, toward my alarm clock on my nightstand table next to my bed. The glowing red numbers read: 6:45 A.M. I have exactly an hour to get myself ready for school. 

I shiver at the thought of school. I’m a little nervous but yet I’m also excited. But I frown as a sudden, fearful realization dawns upon me. I swallow. What if my past gets leaked out to the whole school? What if people know how pathetic I am? Especially during a storm? I mean, who would want to be friends with a bastard, orphan, and an immigrant? They can’t know. Nobody needs to know. 

My anxious, racing thoughts comes to a halt when I hear three soft, tender knocks on my closed bedroom door. My eyes flicker towards the door, my breath hitching in my throat. I sit up a bit straighter against the mountain of pillows surrounding me, combing out any tangled knots in my lock of auburn hair that’s fallen around my shoulders and comb my bangs to the side. I sniff a couple of times and wipe away as many tears as I can off of my freckled dotted face with the heel of my palm. I clear my throat as I rest my hands on my lap and force a reassuring smile toward the door. 

“Come in,” I say weakly, grimacing at how hoarse my voice sounds. 

The door creaks open slightly and I brace myself for who might the intruder be. I swallow hard, my Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as I let out a shaky breath, watching intently as the door swings open. The knocker’s head pokes through the small crack between the door’s frame and the door itself. He smiles softly when his rich chocolate brown eyes land on mine. Only his upper body, from his chest and up, pokes through the door. 

“Hey,” he says softly. “It’s me. May I come in?” 

I shrug, smiling truly this time. But it’s just a small smile. 

“You’re my brother, Gil,” I say with a chuckle, running a hand through my auburn colored hair. “You don’t have to ask.” 

He shrugs and fully steps inside now, closing the door behind him and tucking his hands into his jean pockets. He rocks a little on his heels. He stands few inches away from the door. 

“It’s a force of habit, mon petite lion,” he says with his thick French accent. 

I fold my arms over my chest and roll my eyes, laughing to myself as I shake my head. My eyes land on my adoptive brother, Lafayette’s. Lafayette’s a smart man. A kind one too. He’s two years older than me, which makes him nineteen. He’ll turn twenty in a few months from now and in a few months past his birthday, I’ll be eighteen. Lafayette, or Laf or Gil for short, has rosy cheeks and pale skin, a lean, masculine and strong body. He’s physically fit and the biceps on his arms are about the size of a watermelon while mine are about the size of a grapefruit. His red-orange hair smoothed back and combed to the side and it glistens against the sunlight coming through the window. It’s then, that I realize, that that is hair gel. He wears a red long-sleeved turtleneck shirt with blue denim jeans and white Chuck Taylors. And me? I’m still in my pajamas. 

Lafayette walks toward me in a graceful motion. It takes him two steps to make it to my bed. Power of having long legs. Lucky bastard. He sits himself down at the edge of my bed. The mattress jostles a little and it dips down a little due to his added weight. I watch him interlace his fingers together and lean forward slightly and rests his forearms on his thighs, his back arching a little. He presses his lips together in a straight line before turning to face me. 

It’s quiet between us for a few moments as we stare awkwardly at each other, waiting for one of us to start a conversation. But instead, we just ended up having a staring contest until Lafayette clears his throat and sighs through his nose lightly. He forces the corners of his lips turn upward and he tilts his head slightly, examining every detail of me. 

“You okay, Alex?” he asks quietly, his voice almost in a hushed whisper. 

I swallow and my reassuring smile fades into a frown. But I quickly return that smile to him when he frowns worriedly and I nod curtly, sharply. 

“Mhm,” I say. “I’m fine.” 

Of course, he doesn’t believe me. He raises an eyebrow and gives me this look that says, “Are you lying to me?” 

“Alex—” he begins but I cut him off, squeezing his arm reassuringly. 

“I’m fine, Gil,” I say. “Really. What are you doing here, anyways? Shouldn’t you be getting on a plane?” 

“I wanted to check on you,” he says. “I wanted to say goodbye before I leave for France for college.” 

I only nod, but I don’t reply. 

He sighs again, this time out his mouth instead of through his nose. He sits up straighter somewhat and runs his hand through his auburn hair. He turns to me, locking his chocolate brown eyes on my violet ones. 

“I don’t want to leave you, Alex…” he mutters, his eyes flickering down toward his lap. 

I chuckle softly, shaking my head. “Gil, I’ll be fine. Trust me! You do trust me, right?” 

He nods. “Of course! You’re my brother! I trust you with my life!” 

“Then know that I’ll be okay on my own. I don’t need you to follow me all the time like a lost puppy. Plus, Dad’s going to be one of my teachers there so it won’t be as bad.” “True,” he sighs, agreeingly. “But still. What if something happens to you, Alex? What if you get hurt? Or…what if there’s a storm while you’re at school?” 

I wince when he mentions the storm but I let him continue ranting a little, letting him get his anxious thoughts off of his chest. I notice his leg is bouncing up and down slightly as he chews on his nails, his foot tapping against the wooden floor. 

“What if you get r-ra-ra…” He can’t bare himself to finish the sentence. He doesn’t need too. I frown, looking down toward my lap, ashamed. Why I feel ashamed? I have no idea. Lafayette swallows hard, licking his lips as he lets out a shaky breath. His hands tremble as he raises one trembly hand toward his mouth and he bites his nails. His hand still shaking. His leg still bouncing up and down and his other free hand’s fingers drum against his knee as it bounces up and down. His eyes are wide and wild, filled with fear of what would happen to me. The fear of losing me, the only thing he loves in this world, the fear that he won’t be there to protect me. The fear that he won’t be there when I need him most. 

I sigh through my nose heavily as I prop myself up in a straighter position than before. I swing my legs around the edge of the bed so I’m sitting shoulder to shoulder next to my brother. Even when sitting, I’m still a head shorter than him. I’m just right above his shoulder but under his ear. Lafayette moans miserably as he puts his face in his hands. I wrap my arm around his shoulders, resting my head underneath his ear and on top of his shoulder. 

“I don’t want to leave you, Alex…” he murmurs, his voice slightly muffled with his hands covering his face, his elbows on his knees. “I don’t want too…I know you’re old enough to take care of yourself and all but…still. Mon ami, you’re…you’re small and fragile. Vulnerable. And you can be easily broken. You’ll make an easy target and…and if something were to happen to you, I don’t know if I’ll be able to forgive myself…” 

I feel the corners of my lips turn upward slightly and sit up, lifting my head off of his shoulder. I turn to him, rubbing his arm up and down comfortingly. I let out a soft laugh. 

“Gil,” I say. “Calm down, will ya? You’re not going to lose me! I’ll be fine!” 

“I know, I know,” he sighs, running a hand through his ginger-colored hair again. His cheeks puffs out as he exhales long and slow through his mouth. “It’s just…like I said, Alex: you’re vulnerable and small. I don’t want…I don’t want you to be heartbroken or taken advantage of, is all…” 

I brush back a loose strand of hair behind Lafayette’s ear, almost absentmindedly. I rest my hand on his cheek and he hums with content as he closes his eyes gently and leans into my touch, gripping my small wrist for dear life. 

“Gil,” I say, almost sternly. “Relax. I’ll be fine. Trust me. I know how to take care of myself and plus, on the bright side, someone taught me how to throw an uppercut!” 

He snorts and I snicker. Soon, we both burst out laughing together, our laughs almost harmonizing but mine is a bit higher than his. We both double over, our arms slung across each other’s shoulders as we convulsed with laughter. Lafayette nods as he laughs, his mind filling up with childhood memories of when he first taught me self-defense. He’d teach me how to throw an uppercut and an undercut and how to grab someone from behind and flip them over your shoulder and pin them to the ground while their flat on their stomach and your knee in the middle of their back, their arms pinned behind them. He taught me knife-throwing while we’d walk through the woods and taught me how to shoot a gun, but he told me, very strictly and sternly, to use one when and if necessary. We’d spend hours in the backyard, from early afternoon say around four when Lafayette got home from school to roughly six in the evening when George gets home from work and Martha is just finishing making dinner, wrestling each other, throwing uppercuts and undercuts, throwing kicks and learning how to doge a punch or how to block one. Those were good times. 

Lafayette glances at the clock on my nightstand once our laughter has died down somewhat. He frowns, sighing through his nose as his smile fades. He locks his chocolate brown eyes with my violet ones and I couldn’t help but grin. 

“You sure you’ll be alright, Alex?” he asks, biting the corner of his lip. 

I nod and squeeze his arm. “I’ll be fine, Gil. I swear.” 

He nods, sighing through his nose one last time before pushing himself up off the edge of my mattress and runs a hand through his hair before turning around to face me. He smiles and extends his hand out toward me. I stare at it with a blank expression on my face, as if it were an alien. 

“Come on,” Lafayette says. “Martha’s making breakfast. And I have to get you to school.” 

I sigh through my nose as I gently place my hand in his. Lafayette helps me up to my feet and we stand in front of each other, staring into each other’s eyes. I swear, I can see my reflection in his pupil. 

Lafayette tucks back a loose auburn curl behind my ear. He nods sharply and presses a kiss to my forehead. 

“I’ll be downstairs if you need me, alright?” he says, brushing back my auburn bangs out of my violet eyes. 

I only nod and wrap my arms tighter around myself, making myself look vulnerable and small. Only then to have Lafayette pull me in a tight embrace. My head is under his chin as I snake my arms around him, returning the hug. After a few minutes, Lafayette finally pulls back and ruffles my hair. I swat at his hand, sticking my tongue out at him and folding my arms over my chest. 

Lafayette only laughs a little before pressing a kiss to my forehead and ruffling my hair one more time before finally leaving me alone in this empty, cold bedroom with the door clicking shut behind him.


	2. Chapter Two

“GOOD MORNING, SON,” says a man who’s roughly in his mid-forties with red-orange hair, almost the same colored hair as Lafayette’s but more brownish though and pale, smooth skin with rich gray-blue eyes. He sits at the end of the dining room table with his laptop flipped open and a couple of newspapers sprawled out around him. He picks up the white mug on the right side of his laptop (which reads World’s #1 Dad) and takes a long, slow sip out of it. His rectangular glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He sniffs and pushes them back up the bridge of his nose before continuing typing onto his keyboard with his left hand while holding his coffee mug with his right. I try not to wince when I hear the word “son” come out of his mouth. 

“Morning, Dad,” I say as I swing off the bottom step, gripping onto the stairwell’s post and swing my body around it. I jog towards the living room couch and slide the shoulder strap to my bookbag off of my shoulder and let it flop down on the couch with a thump, crashing into the throw-on pillows. I sling my arm around George’s neck and press a kiss to his cheek. He pats my forearm and hums as he takes a sip of his coffee again. George raises an eyebrow at me. 

“How’d you sleep, Alexander?” George wonders. 

“Slept fine, Dad,” I say. I’m not allowed to call him “George” straight in his face. 

“Are you sure, Alexander?” he says. “Your eyes are red…and there are dark circles underneath them. Did you stay up past midnight again working on that novel of yours?” 

I shoot George a hard glare over my shoulder as I reach for a random coffee mug from the cabinet next to the stove. I narrow my eyes at him and scowl, my nose twisting up with disgust. 

“So, what if I did?” I say, a little too defensively. He’ll know I’m lying. Or perhaps he’s gotten used to the deceit in my voice that he might actually believe my lies. I mean, I lie to him all the time now. 

George sighs defeatedly, rubbing the spot with his forefinger and middle finger between the brows in a small circular motion. 

“Alexander…” he says warningly. 

“What?” I say, setting the mug underneath the Keurig machine before lifting the lid and popping the k-cup in the little hole and closing the lid. I press the button with the large pitcher symbol. I turn to face George, folding my arms over my chest as I lean back against the marble counter. I cross my ankles over each other. “So, what, Dad? What are you going to do about it? Ground me? Put me in time-out?” 

“Son, don’t start this right now!” George whines, lifting his head up to meet my eyes. “On a Monday too. At seven o’clock in the morning…” 

I shrug blamelessly. “Well, it’s not my fault. You were the one who brought it up!” 

George narrows his eyes at me and I feel my cheeks warm with triumph, feeling the corners of my lip turn upwards slightly as I watch George sink his teeth into his bottom lip, trying not to bark back an argument. I humph as I turn back around to watch the coffee brew. I lean against the counter, my chin resting in my palm and my other arm draped over the counter. 

“Well, good morning to you too, honey,” says a soft, feminine voice coming from beside me with a soft chuckle. 

It’s then that I hear the bacon crackle in the pan and the scrape of the spatula from the pan as a young woman perhaps in her mid to late thirties stands next to me scrambling up scrambled eggs with melted American cheese on top. She has dark, chocolate brown hair pulled back into a low bun, letting a few curly bangs dangle in front of her emerald green eyes which sparkle against the sunlight shining through the window. She has smooth, flawless skin. She wears little makeup such as foundation covering her acne and light pink eyeshadow with eyeliner and mascara and cherry red lipstick coating her small, thin lips. She has on silver hoops and she wears a light pink blazer with a white shirt underneath and a pink skirt to match her blazer. She wears black high heels and a bracelet dangles from her left wrist, a watch on her right and a silver, diamond ring on her ring finger. I feel a small smile tugging on my lips. 

“Morning to you too, Mom,” I mumble. 

She eyes me worriedly as I swing the refrigerator to grab the coffee creamer. She smiles sweetly, almost concernedly. Though, she looks pained too. I can see the crinkles in her eyes as she tries to smile. It’s a long silence between the two of us, well, besides the chatter among George and Lafayette in the dining room. I pour in three tablespoons of creamer into the coffee and stir it up. 

“Are you sure you’re alright, Alexander?” Martha asks worriedly. 

I glance at her over my shoulder and flash her a reassuring smile, though it probably doesn’t look as convincing as I’d like it to be. 

“I’m fine, Mom,” I assure her. “I promise. Just…had a bad dream last night…is all…” 

She puckers her lips together, as though she tasted something sour, and heaves a long sigh through her nose. Her brows furrowing together, causing a small crease to form in her forehead and she narrows her eyes at me. She looks like she’s trying to analyze my brain, trying to figure out what’s going on in my head. She knows I’m lying. I’m not that much of a good liar. 

“Alexander—” she starts, but I cut her off with a roll of my eyes and a look of annoyance. 

“Mom, I’m fine,” I say. “Seriously! It was just a bad dream, is all! Nothing too serious!” 

She sighs again through her nose and scrapes the scrambled eggs onto a plate next to the stove. She turns off the stove and scrapes the bacon onto the plate with the eggs and sets the pan down. She leans against the stove with her arms folded over her chest and an eyebrow raised. 

“Alexander…” she says in a warning tone. Her expression softens and I feel her small hand on my shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly. Though, I don’t find it comforting in me whatsoever. I stare into my coffee, clutching the cup with both hands. I can see my reflection glinting in the creamer slightly. “You know you can tell me anything that’s troubling you, Alexander. You don’t have to keep it a secret. You don’t have to bottle it up like this. It’s not healthy…” 

I feel myself scowl. “I don’t care.” I say it a bit too sharply, a bit too defensively. I swallow and look past her shoulder, at the window in the living room, a stony expression on my face. “I don’t want to about it.” 

“Alex—” Martha says, her voice mewing. Almost pleadingly. 

I shoot her a glare, a warning glare as I swallow the lump of tears straining in my throat. 

Through clenched teeth, I growl as quietly as I can without a trembling voice, “I said I don’t want to talk about it…” 

“Honey—” 

“Martha,” George warns from the dining room. He doesn’t need to tell her to back off. 

Martha glances from George to me with a worried look. She presses her lips together in a straight line and sighs through her nose defeatedly. She nods before patting my shoulder and pressing a kiss to my cheek. I watch her, while keeping my face straight ahead at the window in the living room, carry the plate with the eggs and the bacon to the dining room table. 

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding until she left the room. I feel slightly bad for her. I didn’t mean to be so harsh. I know she was worried about me and just trying to help, but still. My behavior just then wasn’t acceptable. My jaw is set as I stare out the window, clutching the cup of coffee in my hands. I swallow the bile down my throat and blink my eyes. My teeth are still gritted together when I look back down at the coffee in my hands. My vision blurs, causing everything I look at to smear together. I close my eyes gently as I lean against the marble counter. 

Why? Why did have it to be me? Why me? Why? I wish James were alive. He’d make everything so much better. He’d make everything feel safe. Don’t get me wrong, I love Lafayette as my own biological brother, but it’s just not the same. Sometimes…sometimes I wish it was me that had died in that hurricane or me that had died from that sickness my mother and I had. But I didn’t. There has to be a reason. There has to be a reason why all that happened to me when it did. And there is, isn’t there? I open my eyes slowly as the realization dawns upon me. I lift the cup to my lips, the tip of the coffee mug just under my upper lip and I stare out the window with a blank look, my brows furrowed together and a frown forming on my face. I don’t exactly take a sip, not yet anyways. I just let the cup touch my cold lips, my arm across my chest while my right elbow presses against my hand. There is a reason. And that reason is because James loved me. That’s why he pushed me out of the way from death. It’s because he loved me. He wanted me to experience life to the fullest. He wanted me to live to experience the beauty of life, the beauty of love and the beauty of making friends. He wanted me to make friends and fall in love. He wanted me to live because he, my dear brother, loved me more than anything in this world. He sacrificed himself for me, to give me the things I didn’t have. To let me find a loving and caring family, to start fresh again. I was too young to die. After all, I was only fourteen. But so was James. There could have been another way…I could have saved him but I didn’t. I just stood there like an idiot and did absolutely nothing. I just let him die. 

I squeeze my eyes shut. No. No I didn’t just let him. He was willing. He was willing to face death himself. James was prepared for it. And I wasn’t. If our roles were reversed, and James was standing in my place right now, I have no doubt he’d feel the same thing for me. He’d blame himself for not being able to save me if our roles were switched. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if that ever happened. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. And that’s what I need to do, right? I have to move on from my tragic past and live life to the fullest, experience love and heartbreaks, experience befriending people. James would want me to go to college and get a degree in whatever career it is that I wish to pursue. He’d want me to get married and have children. He’d want me to be a father in the future. He just wanted me to be happy, after all we’ve been through together. So, I have to stay alive. Even though, I wish a million times I was dead instead of him, I have to stay alive. I have to. For my mother. For him. For Martha and George and Lafayette, my adoptive family. I glance over my shoulder toward the dining room and I find a small smile forming on my face as I watch my family boast with laughter as their silver forks clink against their plates, as they wine and dine together. I have to stay alive. For them. I have to learn to be able to forgive and that’s what James had taught me. He’d taught me to forgive. He forgave our father after he abandoned us and soon, I’ve learned to forgive my father as well. I have to stay alive. For James. I have to stay alive and complete all the things he wished he could do but didn’t. I have to fulfill James’s dreams and mine. 

I sigh through my nose as I feel the smallest tears slip down my freckled cheeks. After a few minutes of silently crying to myself, I wipe my tears away with the heel of my palm, sniff, and clear my throat. Still clutching my coffee cup in my hands, I force my numb legs to move. I force them to move toward the dining room where all laughter and chatter ceased as soon as I stepped into view. All eyes turn to me, watching me intently and confusedly and worriedly all at the same time. I set my cup down next to my brother at the table. I grip the back of the chair. Martha beams at me, George smiles softly with a nod and Lafayette just grins, his arms folded over his chest. I pull out the chair next to my brother and Martha and across from George. I let out a shaky breath as I slide into the chair. I scoot the chair closer to the table. I interlace my fingers together behind my plate and press my lips together, eyeing my family. They’re silent. They wait for me to say something. Anything. I clear my throat, brushing back a loose auburn curl behind my ear and say: 

“So. What’d I miss?”   
***   
We’re driving down the interstate now in downtown Manhattan toward King’s College High. I’m in George’s car, seated in the passenger seat with my arms folded over my chest as I gaze out the passenger side window, at the cars blurring together as they rush past us, some slowing down and honking at others as they come to a stop because of a red light or traffic. My bookbag sits on the floor. The buildings and skyscrapers blur together as we pass them. The sky is a perfect blue, cloudless and beautiful as the sun shines down on us, right above us actually. The music in the car roars and booms as George nods to the beat, his fingers drumming against the wheel and he hums along to the lyrics. Occasionally, he’d steal a glance at me over his shoulder worriedly but shakes it off and turns his attention back toward the road in front of him. 

I rest my elbow on the windowsill and my chin in my palm as I stare up at the cloudless, blue sky. I wonder what James is doing right now up there. I wonder what my mother is doing. Is my father up there? Where are my family and what are they up to? I wonder if James met a girl up there. I wonder if he’s fallen in love with her and are happily together. The thought of that makes me smile a little. I close my eyes for just a moment. Oh, James…I can’t wait to see you on the other side when my time has come… 

I open my eyes again just as we head towards an exit. I reel back from the window and turn my attention towards the windshield in front of me, my arms folded over my chest again. We come to a red light and George turns down the volume. I know what’s coming next. 

“Okay, son,” George says, turning to me as best he can with a seatbelt across his chest. I don’t meet his eyes, I just stare out the windshield. “What’s going on? What’s happening in that brain of yours? I’m worried.” 

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Of course, he’s worried. Why am I not surprised? 

“I’m fine, Dad,” I say. And that is all I say. 

The light turns green and George presses the gas pedal and moves us forward. 

“No, Alexander, you’re not,” he says flatly with a deep tone that slightly scares me. But I try not to show it. “You’re not alright and you know it. Something is going on with you and as your father, I feel like I have a right to know. I can’t help you, son, if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.” 

“I don’t need your help,” I say, bluntly. 

“Alexander—” 

“Can we not talk about this right now, Dad?” I hiss. “On my first day too? I just…I’m fine. If you must know, Dad, I had a bad dream last night. That’s all.’’ 

For a moment, I thought I felt a sense of triumph in my chest when George doesn’t respond. But I know that look on his face. He’s thinking. He’s thinking about the right words to say. He presses his lips together and sighs through his nose. 

“Was it about the hurricane?” George asks. 

I swallow and look over my shoulder out the window. My jaw clenches and I fight the urge to let out a choked sob. I bite my tongue and kept my mouth shut for once. This, my friend, is a sign that this is the end of discussion. 

George sighs again and turns his attention back toward the road. We don’t speak to each other for the remainder of the ride towards the school. George makes a left and after about ten more minutes of sitting in this car we finally pull up to the school’s parking lot. George pulls into the staff parking lot, though, which is as full as the student parking lot. The parking lot looks like it’s a sea of vehicles. There’s perhaps one or maybe two spaces free left. George pulls into a space near the small, rectangular building, closest to the entranceway. I bite my bottom lip, hard enough I thought it might start to draw blood. Busses line up the side of the curb, the doors swinging open to let the students out. The students climb off the bus one by one and wait underneath this giant archway above them, which is supported by six pillars. Three on the left side and three on the right. I see two double brown doors, which are closed. I glance at the clock. It reads 7:30 A.M. The school doors should be opening here in about fifteen minutes or so, according to Lafayette. 

“Well, here we are,” George says after a few minutes of awkward silence. “Now. Here’s what I want you to do, Alexander.” 

I turn to give him my fullest attention. 

“The first thing I want you to do is wait with the others at the entrance. Don’t talk to anyone, or anything like that.” 

I fight the urge to roll my eyes again. 

“The next thing I want you to do, son, is go straight to the Principal’s Office. There, you should find Principal Schuyler who’ll give you a map of the school and your class schedule and your combination lock and code for your locker. And after that, I want you to come straight to me. I’ll be waiting outside a door underneath a sign that says American English and Lit. got it?” 

“Yeah, Dad. I got it,” I mumble. 

George smiles approvingly and nods curtly. He ruffles my auburn hair and presses a kiss to my temple before turning off the ignition and climbing out the driver’s side door, grabbing his bag and slinging it across his chest and grabbing his coffee in his to-go cup. 

“Love you,” he says before shutting the door. “See you in a few, Alexander.” 

“Love you too, Dad…” I whisper, staring out the window for a few seconds. 

I wait until George is out of view before grabbing my bag off the ground and slinging the strap over my shoulder. I grab my phone off its charger from the cupholder and with my pinky and ring finger I manage to push the passenger side door open, letting it slam shut. I stand in front of the car for a few minutes, taking a few deep breaths before finally forcing my legs to move. 

I keep my head down, my teeth still digging into my bottom lip as I clutch onto my phone tightly, so tight my knuckles turn white. I watch my feet stepping in front of each other, the rocks in the road crunching beneath my shoes. I climb up the curb to the sidewalk and stand in front of the crowded entranceway. I swallow hard, licking my dry lips before finally gathering the courage to take my first steps toward the school. I stay far away from the students as much as possible, in hopes I would not draw any attention to them. I lean against an empty pillar, my arms folded over my chest as I watch the students roar with laughter. Some chat ridiculously loudly for no reason, bullies taunt nerds who are just trying to read their science books in peace, while couples make out. I scowl at the couples, my nose twisting up with disgust. 

“Jackie!” I hear someone squeal with delight and excitement, the voice is feminine and high-pitched. 

I jerk my head up toward the noise, tilting my head toward one shoulder curiously. I see a teenage girl, roughly my age—seventeen—or perhaps a year older with sandy blonde hair pulled into a high bun and a natural lean body with hazel eyes and who wears a jet blue sweater and black leggings with black boots. My eyes follow her as she runs through the crowded entranceway, towards the front doors. I furrow my brows as she jumps onto a teenage male with shoulder-length sandy blonde hair like hers pulled back into a low ponytail, letting a few blonde bangs fall in front of his eyes and rich blue eyes that are the color of the ocean and a muscular frame. He looks like he could be a football player or a bodybuilder. His biceps, compared to mine anyways, are about the size of a watermelon while mine are about the size of a grapefruit or an apple. I notice there’s a scar etched underneath his right eye from the corner of the corner of his right eye to his jawline. I raise an eyebrow. I wonder how he got it. 

The girl jumps on the boy’s back, locking her slim legs around his waist and her thin arms around his neck, taking the boy by surprise. The boy, however, catches her, gripping the back of her thighs as she jumps on him, burying her face into the crook of his neck. I swallow. They’re together. Of course, they are. You don’t know that, Hamilton, my mind scolds. They could just be friends. 

I must have stared at them for way longer than I realized because after what seemed like an hour, the blue-eyed boy finally turns to me and I feel my cheeks warm up. I bite the corner of my bottom lip before ducking my chin down and away from them. I can feel the boy’s eyes on me for a while before I see, in my peripheral, the boy turning his attention back toward the girl. 

I feel a tap on my shoulder and instinct kicks in. I swivel around on my heels, fast as lightning and pull my arm back, ready to punch whoever it may be. My heart pounds against my chest, my eyes wild and determined and my breathing quickens. But I relax and lower my hand. It’s just a girl. It’s just a girl. 

She stares at me with wide eyes, her jaw dropped open slightly, not fully all the way but only half way. She has smooth, flawless peach-colored skin with chocolate brown eyes. She has chocolate brown hair pulled back into a low bun behind her ears and she’s lanky and thin like me. She’s only a head shorter or so, probably up to my ears if we were to stand shoulder to shoulder. She wears a light blue dress with black leggings underneath and a necklace is around her neck. She wears little makeup but she does have on eyeshadow and pink lipstick and that’s just about it. She’s beautiful. 

“You okay?” she asks softly as she hesitantly places her hand on my shoulder. 

I feel myself tense up but I soon relax. I swallow and nod, flashing her a reassuring smile. 

“Yeah,” I say, ignoring George’s rule about talking to strangers. “I’m fine. You just startled me is all. You okay? I didn’t hurt you or anything like that right?” 

She smiles sweetly and shakes her head. “No. I’m fine. Thank you, though.” 

“Of course,” I say. 

She eyes me sideways, scanning me up and down, analyzing every detail I have. She tilts her head to one shoulder, clutching her textbooks and notebooks to her chest with both arms instead of just one. 

“You’re new here right? I don’t think I’ve seen you in the school before,” she wonders. Her voice is soft and soothing. Almost therapeutic. I could listen to it all day and won’t be mad about it. Her voice is as sweet as a cinnamon roll. 

I nod. “Yeah. I am.” I clear my throat. “Sorry about that, earlier, by the way. About me almost punching you in the face?” 

She giggles and I can feel my heart doing summersaults. 

“That was…that was merely self-defense,” I say. 

“It’s not a problem,” she says. She holds out her hand. “My name’s Elizabeth Schuyler, though most people call me Eliza.” 

“Schuyler?” I say, raising an eyebrow as her last name rings in my ears. I suddenly realize she’s the principal’s daughter. 

“My sister,” says another voice creeping up behind her. 

I look up to see a slightly taller girl, who in comparison is both taller than Eliza and I, with hazelnut brown skin and warm brown eyes glinting against the sun. Her frizzled dark brown hair is pulled up into a frizzled ponytail, her curls cascading over her shoulders slightly. She wears a light pink turtleneck with blue denim jeans and brown country-styled boots. She has her bag slung across her torso, her arms folded over her chest as she raises an eyebrow, a knowing smirk on her face. I suddenly feel very frightened of the girl walking up behind Eliza. 

“Pleasure,” I say. I turn to the girl in the pink, raising an eyebrow. “And you are?” 

“My name’s Angelica Schuyler,” she says. She extends her hand out and I grasp it, though her grip tightens and I bite my tongue to hold back a yelp and fight the urge to grimace. “Alexander Hamilton,” I say through clenched teeth. 

She smirks, quirking an eyebrow. Eliza just rolls her eyes. Angelica’s grip tightens. 

“Where’s your family from?” 

“Unimportant. But there’s a million things I haven’t done. Just you wait, just you wait—Ow! Okay, okay! You can let go now Miss Schuyler! You’re kind of crushing my hand!” 

“Good,” Angelica snaps. She releases her grip and lets go of my hand. I shake it, rubbing my knuckles soothingly. 

“Angie,” Eliza hisses, slapping her sister’s forearm gently, “be nice!” 

Angelica mumbles something incoherently, folding her arms over her chest and rolling her eyes as she mimics Eliza’s voice. I press the back of my hand to my mouth, trying my best to stifle the snicker that escapes it. 

“And Peggy!” exclaims another feminine voice from behind me. 

I hunch forward slightly when I feel hands on my shoulders, and chest pressing into my back. I grunt as my eyes widen, startled. She lowers herself down from me and giggles at my shocked expression. I turn to find a young girl, probably about fifteen or sixteen, walk around me and stands next to me with her arms crossed over her chest. She has light brown skin with ebony, chocolate brown eyes and her frizzled hair pulled back into a ponytail like Angelica’s. She wears a yellow sweater and blue denim jeans with black flats. Her bag slung across her chest like Angelica’s. 

I force a smile upon my face. 

“Well, it’s uh…a pleasure to meet you all,” I say. 

“What’s your name?” Peggy asks. 

“Alexander,” I say. “Hamilton. Alexander Hamilton.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two is up! Thanks for reading! Also, I don't know how to use italics or bold on A03. I'm using my laptop. But as always, stay safe!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I'm new to Archive of our own so this is my first work posted here. I have no idea where this is going to go so bare with me. This is my first Lams story so I hope you'll enjoy it. The characters will have their historical appearnaces because I literally love historical lams more than my own excistence and this story is set in Alexander's point of view. Hope you enjoyed the first chapter! Feel free to comment! I love reading comments. You can also find this story on Wattpad under Lams_WashingDad. I will try to update once a week, every Sunday.


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